


No Well-Bred Person

by notoneforreality



Series: QB-B3 007 Fest 2020 [5]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 'losing', 007 Fest, 007 Fest 2020, Autistic Character, Bond doesn't care, Bond hates medical, Bond is a sneak, Bond's proclivity for losing weapons, Breaking and Entering, M/M, Non-Verbal, Prompt Fill, Q is Autistic, Q is not a doctor, Stimming, Team Q Branch, autistic traits, but so is Q, injured Bond, they deserve each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24917908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoneforreality/pseuds/notoneforreality
Summary: Q would really rather Bond actually go to medical after missions. If he insists on coming to Q, however, Q can hardly just let him suffer, even if he does have a chronic inability to return equipment.Five times Bond breaks into Q's flat, and one time Q breaks into Bond's house.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Series: QB-B3 007 Fest 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795726
Comments: 18
Kudos: 184





	No Well-Bred Person

**Author's Note:**

> Written for--  
> This prompt from the 2020 anon list: Its no secret that Bond barely returns any equipment because he mostly destroys them until only the tiniest parts are still there and not pulverized.  
> Its no secret either that Bond breaks into flats of people he likes.  
> Q has enough of his antics and decided to turn Bonds own game against him.  
> Only to find a lot of “missing” or “pulverized” equipment whole and shiny in Bonds flat.

The first time it happens, Q is confused and concerned and wildly unprepared. He gets home from work late, after an entire day spent trying to wrangle both Double-oh Eight and the minion group working on the lipstick taser that someone thought would be a hilarious idea, and just wants to crash on the couch with his cats, some pizza, and the semi-finals of the Great British Sewing Bee.

He can’t do that, though, because Agent Bond is sat on the sofa.

Q knocks his fist against his collar bone and narrows his eyes at Bond. There’s no need to ask how he got into the flat — the kitchen window is open, the wires disconnected in a way that means Q’s going to have even more work to do tomorrow fixing it — but…

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Bavaria?”

Bond waves him away, at which point Q notices that there’s blood on Bond’s shirt.

“You’re hurt,” he says, and ignores Bond’s protests in favour of going to find the field first aid kit he keeps in the bathroom. 

It takes some persuasive talking, but Q manages to get Bond to take his shirt off, and keeps his hands steady for long enough to sew up the gash just under Bond’s ribs that he should have had checked already.

“I lost the watch,” Bond says, and Q is too busy singing the periodic table song over and over in his head to avoid vomiting at the fact that the needle is going through skin instead of banana peel or that weird fake silicon thing they practised on. 

When the words register, far too late, when Bond has already been gone an hour, Q sighs and goes to bed without dinner, more than ready for the day to be over.

* * *

The second time, Q has been made aware of Bond’s bizarre methods of declaring friendship. When he mentioned it in work the day after Bond’s first break-in, Eve had nodded and told Q that he was one of Bond’s people, now. Q just said that as long as he never has to sew Bond’s flesh again, he’s fine with that.

Bond is in the kitchen, this time, when Q arrives home with two overflowing Tesco bags. He comes at from behind the counter and makes to help with the bags, but Q spots the limp and jabs a finger at the couch.

The bags contain items for the fridge and freezer, so Q puts them away, but leaves everything else out on the side, going to deal with Bond before he bleeds out and dies or something else inconvenient. This time, when he goes to fetch the first aid kit, shaking his hands furiously now before he needs to keep them steady, Rameses creeps out of the bedroom door as he passes, and slinks into the living room to stare at Bond.

“Who’s this?” Bond says.

Q sighs and fishes his phone out of his pocket to type a message and throw it at Bond: _This is Rameses. Romulus is also around here somewhere._

Bond raises an eyebrow. “Historical figures? Oh, that reminds me, the communicator ended up in the Tiber.”

Q doesn’t say anything. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, but he most decidedly does not, because if he did have the use of words, he’d probably try to tell Bond off and that would be embarrassing for both of them. As for the cats, he’d rather Bond be under the impression that he named his cats after historical figures like a cultured person rather than just wanting excuses to nickname them after types of computer memory.

He pats the coffee table instead, and glares at Bond’s shoulder until he puts his leg up so Q can look at the wound properly. 

It doesn’t quite work, because it turns out that the wound is a cut along the back of Bond’s right calf, so Q gestures and pantomimes until Bond lies flat out, face down along the couch. Then Q can tug his trousers up to the knee and survey the damage.

Stitches are required, and Q wants to cry but he doesn’t because Bond is the one who’s injured, not him. Rameses comes to perch on Q’s back while he’s bent over with the needle and Bond asks if that’s a good idea, but the pressure keeps Q grounded, keeps him stable. It’s not as many as for the last wound, and Q gets it done relatively quickly.

Then he shoves Bond’s feet of the couch and sinks into the pillows with Rameses in his lap and doesn’t move for the rest of the night.

Bond turns the TV on and stays for an indeterminate amount of time. All Q knows is that when he wakes, the TV has been turned off and the other side of the couch has been empty for a while.

* * *

The third time, Q is already in the flat when Bond clambers in through the bedroom window. He’s watching 8 Out of 10 Cats Does Countdown and glaring at the letters round, and a faint tapping sound makes him pause the program so he can listen more closely. A clink, and a draft wafts through the flat, bringing the scent of gun oil and cologne and Q slumps back in his seat.

“What do you want?” he calls, and the tiny creaking noises halt. After a moment, the silence is replaced by footsteps, and Bond appears. The line of his shoulders is confused, and he pauses in the entrance to the living room.

“You heard someone breaking into your flat at asked what they want?” Bond crosses his arms. “What if it had been a hostile?”

Q moves his laptop from the couch to the coffee table to make space. “I knew it was you.”

Bond slinks over to the couch in a manner so reminiscent of Rameses that Q laughs. Rameses himself is curled up in the weird red IKEA rocking chair that R convinced Q to buy to ‘brighten up his flat’. Romulus is tucked into Q’s side, pretending to be asleep.

“Autistic superpower,” Q tells him, although it’s very much up for debate whether his nonsense auditory processing is a benefit or a detriment. Pros: noticing tiny changes in sensory input can be very useful in a career that rewards paranoia. Cons: being able to hear, smell, and taste things to a greater degree is not helpful when it isn’t also accompanied by the ability to then process those things in any meaningful way.

He sees Bond narrow his eyes at the subtitles on the paused TV screen and wonders whether Bond is trying to work out how Q could hear him in the bedroom, but not the TV two feet away. Q doesn’t have an answer, either.

“Are you dying?” Q scans Bond, but he doesn’t look injured in any way. He’s been in Borneo for the past two weeks doing God knows what, and Q wasn’t quite expecting the visit, but he’d suspected it might occur.

“No.” Bond scowls and makes his way over to fall onto the couch. “I just need some help splinting my wrist.

Q closes his eyes and counts up bits and bytes, then fixes Bond with an unimpressed stare. “You’ve broken your wrist, and you decided that the best course of action would be to climb up to a second floor window and break in?”

The curve of Bond’s back turns distinctly sullen. “You did a well enough job the last couple of times. And I dropped your gun in a ravine.”

Q drags a hand over his face and benevolently overlooks that for now. “You know we pay a medical department, don’t you? Who are all trained to a greater degree than the one weekend ‘How to Keep an Agent Alive’ first aid course.”

Eve had been in charge of organising the ultimate first aid course for upper-level staff members, including the name of the event. M had made a good show of being unimpressed but Q had spotted Tanner hiding his laughter behind his tablet.

Bond makes a noise that Q thinks roughly translates to ‘fuck medical’. It seems to be a common sentiment amongst the Double-oh agents, and Q can’t for the life of him work out why. 

He sighs and tells Bond to go and get the first aid kit, this time. Then he can help Q try to keep up with Suzie Dent and her dictionary.

* * *

The fourth time, Bond isn’t injured so much as feverish with some sort of poison. Q has no idea how Bond even managed to get back to England, let alone get in through the front door and all its security locks whilst near-unresponsive.

Q gives a baleful look to the bed he only made up with clean sheets this morning, and drags Bond onto the mattress, tucking him in under the five of the six blankets Q has layered on top of the duvet. He drops the weighted one onto the floor and it is immediately claimed by both cats, their kneading making it sound like one of the rain shakers Q remembers from primary school. 

“I have no idea what to do here,” Q says, and vaguely wishes it were as easy as shoving a beazor down Bond’s throat. “I’m sorry to disrupt our little party but I need assistance.”

He calls Eve, because he feels bad enough that he’s bringing someone else into their little post-mission routine (and when did it become that? How has Q managed to become Bond’s personal post-mission mini R&R? Especially when Bond still refuses to actually debrief in Q-Branch, although that’s probably because he never has anything to return), and he’s not going to betray Bond so much as to get medical involved. At least not yet.

Eve turns up armed with activated charcoal to pour down Bond’s throat, along with a bag of other stuff that Q doesn’t even bother pretending to recognise. 

He hovers by the bedside table, trying not to get in the way, and eventually decides to go and make tea in an attempt to be productive. He makes two mugs of breakfast tea, fixing one to his taste (milk, no sugar) and one to Eve’s (black with three sugars), and carries them back to the bedroom. It takes fancy footwork to avoid treading on the escaping cats without spilling any of the boiling liquid, but the drinks and Q’s hands make it to the bed intact.

Then he realises that if they’re going to wait here for Bond to regain awareness, Eve probably doesn’t want to spend the time crouched awkwardly at the edge of the bed. It’s not hard to drag the chair from his office into the bedroom, and he pushes it towards Eve before collecting his mug from the bedside table and settling on the floor. After a moment, he tugs the weighted blanket onto his lap.

“He’ll be fine,” Eve says.

Q hums. “He’s a cockroach.”

“A stupid one,” Eve says, and Q doesn’t argue. 

They chat about various things that don’t have anything to do with national security or the people involved in protecting it until they run out of tea, and then Q goes to get more.

When he returns with the two mugs and a packet of bourbons, Bond is blinking blearily at Eve.

“Where’s Q?” he grumbles. Eve rolls her eyes and doesn’t say anything, just waits for Q to step into Bond’s line of vision. Bond lights up. “Did you make me tea?”

“I made me and Eve tea,” Q says, handing the biscuits and a mug to Eve, but he hands over his own to Bond. “There’s no sugar in it.”

“You’re sweet enough as it is,” Bond says, which wobbles on the line of teasing and strangely tender, which is then ruined by the fact that he swigs half Q’s drink.

“Oi,” says Q, reclaiming his mug and sipping from what’s left of it. “Next time don’t wait for me to get home when you’ve been poisoned half to death and maybe I’ll make you tea. Or, even better, bring back my equipment.”

He looks at Bond, expectantly.

“The knife shoes exploded,” Bond says. Q doesn’t even bother asking how Bond managed to explode a pair of shoes and instead just turns to Eve to thank her for her help.

She’s watching them with an expression on her face that Q doesn’t recognise from any of the charts he had as a kid.

“Don’t worry about it, Q,” she says, then turns to Bond. “You, stop being a dick and grow some balls.”

Q turns that genitalia based phrase over in his head as he sees Eve to the door, and is no closer to working out what she means before she’s already disappeared into the wet London evening. 

He’s no more closer to working it out when Bond leaves the next morning, Q having spent the night on the sofa, but he doesn’t quite dare ask Bond if he has any idea.

* * *

The fifth time Bond breaks in isn’t for himself. Q still scrutinises him, just to be sure, because he’s just back from somewhere in South America, but he can’t look too closely before he has to close his eyes again. Somewhere inside his head, a creature with a very large and solid blunt instrument hammers at his skull.

“R said you were ill,” Bond says. R is in charge of Q-Branch for the now, which means Q can get away with not thinking about work whatsoever. R knows what she’s doing.

Q makes a vague, inarticulate noise that he hopes conveys ‘she was correct and I hate it why do illnesses even exist I have a job to be doing and even if I didn’t, I am _bored.’_

Bond’s footsteps are long and light, and the orange grey of Q’s eyelids changes slightly. When he cracks one eye open, Bond has fixed the gap in the curtains, and is staring at Q’s pile of blankets like it’s going to burn if he touches.

“Wha’ y’ want?” Q mumbles. “Y’ dying?”

“No.” Bond makes a face. “I went to medical. They said I’m fine.”

The surprise lends Q enough energy to prop himself up on his elbows and squint at Bond. “You went to medical?”

“Didn’t want to make you worse,” Bond says. He shifts on his feet. “Haven’t got your gun, though.”

Q slumps back against his pillows. “Shocking. Do I want to know what happened?”

“Komodo dragon ate it.”

The flu wasn’t that bad, Q shouldn’t be hallucinating, but he just has to check. “Sorry?”

“The casino had komodo dragons,” Bond says, like that explains anything rather than just opening up more questions about what he was doing in a casino, why the casino had a komodo dragon, and how the gun ended up inside the animal.

Q leans up far enough to watch Bond flutter at the end of the bed and he sighs. He would roll his eyes but for the fact that he made that mistake yesterday and regretted it immediately. “Sit.”

Slowly, Bond lowers himself onto the bed. 

“‘S memory foam,” Q says. “‘S nice.”

Bond hums and pats the bed, then jerks his hand back when he pats Q’s leg by mistake. This time Q does roll his eyes, and then has to pretend it didn’t send a lance of pain through his skull.

“I’m ill, not broken,” he says. 

“I know,” Bond says, and pats Q’s leg twice more, as though to prove that he knows.

“Good.” 

There’s silence for a long moment, and Q closes his eyes. He’d exhausted all his favourite podcasts and ‘just listening’ videos on YouTube between yesterday and this morning, or at least all the episodes that he hasn’t seen so recently that they’re just as boring as the prospect of doing nothing. 

“Entertain me,” Q demands. “Least you can do for breaking into my flat. Why are you here anyway?”

“Do you want tea?” Bond asks, instead of answering, and Q can’t be bothered to argue. Bond comes back with Q’s nice earl grey, and then perches back on the end of the bed with his own mug of tea.

“You can take your jacket and shoes off, you know,” Q says, wrapping his hands around his mug in an attempt to leech the warmth from it. “Make yourself comfortable. I want a good story.”

Bond looks at him, unreadable for a moment, and then his whole posture shifts and softens. He shucks his jacket and folds it next to him. “Alright, so. The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning….”

* * *

Q checks that Bond is in the range before he leaves at lunch time. It’s been two weeks since Q returned to work after his sick-leave, and two weeks since Bond has started causing a nuisance in Q-Branch nearly every day. It started off harmless enough, and almost certainly an accident, judging by Bond’s reaction the first time he’d caused a computer to spray sparks at the poor minion in charged of the station.

Since then, however, Bond had been increasingly delighted by the problems that seemed to follow in his wake.

Q had decided to try payback. He’d deliberately not told Eve his idea, but R, despite concerns, had been talked into watching over Q-Branch for the afternoon.

Which gives him time to go and break into Bond’s home.

The house is relatively easy to find, after a quick run through the MI6 systems, and then a search on google maps, and Q is staring up at the blue painted door within twenty minutes of leaving Vauxhall. He climbs the steps from the street and leans in to analyse the doorframe, pulling the roll of picks from his pocket.

Getting in isn’t too hard, and Q finds himself on edge. An agent’s house shouldn’t be so easy to get into — not that it was easy, he’d had a few hiccups on the way in, and he likes to think he’s good with security systems — and he spends the first ten minutes expecting booby traps. As he relaxes, however, he realises that, for one, the flat is empty and lacking in any personalisation, and for two, there’s a door on the second floor that’s locked with almost more security than the front entrance.

It’s intriguing, and Q sets to work on it.

After some tricky fiddling, Q gets the door open, and steps into an armoury. 

He gapes. The room is full of weapons: weapons that look like weapons and weapons that look like other, harmless things. On the floor, tucked beneath a set of wall mounted shelves, Q spots the brown oxfords with concealed blade that Bond said had ended up in an explosion. He narrows his eyes and goes searching. 

Within five minutes, he’s found all the weapons that Bond has broken into his house to apologise for, as well as countless others that he recognises as being ‘lost’ or ‘damaged’ in the course of Bond’s missions. He puts his hand on his hips and surveys the room, then harrumphs and starts collecting.

When Bond finally makes it home, long after Q expected, Q is sat at the dining table with an array of weapons spread out in front of him.

“Ah,” Bond says, looking not at all surprised to see Q sat in his dining room. “Would you like some tea?”

“Some tea and some answers, I think,” Q says.

Bond makes breakfast tea the way Q likes it and talks circles until Q is too confused and amused to be annoyed about the poached weapons, and they walk back to Vauxhall together in the morning.

No one dares say anything.

(Eve laughs in their faces.)

**Author's Note:**

> Keep notes:  
> \--how many British TV shows can I make Q watch?  
> \--Q's cats called Romulus and Rameses because he likes history but loves being able to call his cats ROM and RAM (read-only memory/random-access memory)  
> \--Big Bananas Kill Men Going Timber aka Bits Bytes Kilobytes Megabytes Gigabytes Terabytes (thanks Shannon for this helping me pass my ICT GCSE)  
> \--I cannot believe these idiots are just throwing activated charcoal down Bond's throat nad deciding that's enough (this is fiction it does what I want please do not take any medical advice from this call an ambulance)  
> \--I know the komodo dragon was in Skyfall. Do I care? no  
> \--in which Bond narrates his escapades to Q in the style of Ian Fleming  
> \--“No well-bred person goes ashore on someone else's island when there's no one home. But if they put up a sign, then you do it anyway, because it's a slap in the face” (Tone Jansson, The Summer Book)(in which Bond calls security systems a dare)  
> \--this was supposed to be 600 words


End file.
